The Root of All Evil Today
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: Batman decides to cure O'Brian of his kleptomania once and for all, but discovers that it might be preferable to the alternative. This is hurt/comfort, but there is no slash. The title references Pink Floyd, but this isn't a songfic. Rated M for rape, torture, a suicide attempt, and other fun things. Please, please review!
1. Chapter 1

Batman was officially fed up. He had tried to be gentle, supportive, and above all, patient. He had stuck his neck out. He had cashed in on years of public goodwill to convince the judge, not to mention the parole board. He had argued with Martian Manhunter and Superman for hours, citing the same sources _they_ normally used when trying to convince him to be less paranoid. He had gone up in front of the entire League to argue his case, straining his relationships with Wonder Woman and Aquaman to the limit. Eventually, they had seen it this way, but even so…

Those first few months had been hell. It was before he had taken on a ward, and he was still inexperienced as a mentor. It didn't help that his charge was 16, and (as he realized later) abnormally rude. Nevertheless, he had seen potential, and he was certain that he was being of use to the boy. (At the very least, he was saving himself the trouble of dealing with a new supercriminal.) More than that, he genuinely _liked_ this teenager, even if he was obnoxious. He trusted him, and grew to respect his abilities.

And although it wasn't immediately apparent, his trust and respect were well-placed. It was seldom that Plastic Man used his powers for evil (although he did tend to abuse them in other respects). Furthermore, although he didn't show his full abilities often, Plas could be a formidable opponent if his ire was raised, or he had an emotional connection to the battle.

There was one thing, however, that Batman couldn't stand about his friend of ten years. The man stole constantly, and when he didn't steal, he thought about money. It was hard enough to watch one's enemies for tricks; it shouldn't be part of his job to keep an eye on his partner.

Today had been the last straw. It wasn't important _what_ Plas had tried to steal, or how close he had gotten to stealing it. What was important was that they both knew what was going to happen: Batman would give a long lecture about morality, he would profusely apologize and/or try to guilt-trip the Caped Crusader into dropping the subject, and after a few hours of brooding, Batman would calm down and ignore the matter, only to watch it happen again.

Today, however, "Bats" decided that he had had enough. His only word to the apologetic, red-suited figure was an imperious "Come," accompanied by a gesture towards the Batmobile.

They had been driving for well over five minutes before O'Brian stopped staring at his lap. It had been another ten before he asked:

"Well? Por que the silent bit? Why no lecture?"

In reply, Batman leaned over and grabbed him by the throat. He growled, "Why waste my breath?" He quickly released the other hero's neck, put his hand back on the wheel, and faced forward. For the next three minutes, there was silence, broken only by the sound of his fingers on the controls. He didn't look over as the Batmobile converted to its rocket form and took off, although he knew that O'Brian was beginning to twitch nervously. They had been out of the stratosphere for about two minutes before he spoke again.

"I've decided that the time has come for stronger measures. We're going to the Watchtower."

"Why?" sounded the hesitant reply.

"Because you're going straight, completely so, whether you want to or not."


	2. Chapter 2

Batman strode into the Watchtower, O'Brian following meekly at his heels. The rubber man was clearly nervous: he kept pulling at his hands, and he was shaking a little. Batman would have felt guilty, but he held onto his anger, preserving the self-righteous energy that came with it.

"Where's Zatanna?" he demanded of Green Arrow, the first hero he happened to see. With a quizzical glance, the Emerald Archer replied:

"Over by Manhunter's room. Refortifying against mystical attack. Ah…are you all right, Bats? You seem kind of…"

"I'm fine" he replied, brusquely. Then he marched off, Plastic Man in tow.

Zatanna had moved on from Manhunter's quarters; she was nearer to the Question's chamber by the time they found her. She opened her mouth to dismissively explain that she was working, then saw the look in the Dark Knight's eyes and decided to let it be. He was obviously in no mood to argue.

"What's up?" she asked, the tension in her voice belying the lightness of the comment.

"What do you know about curses?"

She shrugged. "Enough, I guess. What are we dealing with: has someone de-aged Superman, stolen Flash's body, what?"

"I don't want to fix a curse. I want to cast one."

This made her start. _Batman_, prince of high-minded morality, wanted to curse someone? Had the Joker finally gone too far? Was this the real Batman?

As if he could read her doubts, Batman said, "This is a…unique instance. I had the idea a while back. I just didn't want to implement it until I was sure that the alternatives wouldn't work. They won't." She noticed that Plastic Man, to whom she hadn't spared a thought until now, suddenly looked down at his feet. _'So he's involved,' _she thought, _'This gets stranger and stranger.'_

"What exactly do you want me to do?" she asked, careful to keep her face neutral.

Batman pointed at O'Brian in a manner that seemed to suggest that they were twenty feet apart, rather than two.

"I want you to make it impossible for him to follow his criminal impulses. Make it so he can't steal."

She swallowed slightly, betraying her apprehension. "I'll have to think about it. It won't be an easy spell."

He nodded, told her to take all the time she needed, turned, and left. Plas still trailed him, looking lost and forlorn.

…

Half an hour later, she had reached a decision. She would do it. Her reasoning was this: Batman was shielding him now, but how long would it be before O'Brian did something that got him into real trouble, something from which not even his reputation as a hero could save him? No, it was better for him if she made him stop now. It was tough love. Therefore, she shouldn't have felt any guilt about the matter: unfortunately, she had always found it difficult to avoid irrational feelings. She ignored her misgivings as best she could, and plunged herself headlong into developing a curse. She found the task surprisingly easy, thanks to her experience in undoing magic spells. Soon, she was ready to try it.

She was sitting in her private room when Plastic Man came in, escorted by Batman. He looked terrified. She smiled reassuringly up at him.

"Alright," she said, addressing her words to Batman, but watching the other man out of the corner of her eye. "Here's how it's going to work: this spell shouldn't stop him from doing his job. If he has to take incriminating footage from someone's home, or steal a doomsday device from a mad scientist's lair, or whatever, he'll still be able to do that. He just won't be able to _keep_ whatever he takes, and he won't be able to keep goods anyone else has stolen, either. (I trust that that won't be a problem, because he doesn't do forensic work, right?)" O'Brian shook his head slightly. Thus encouraged, she turned to him and continued:

"I'm going to start now, 'kay? It won't hurt, I promise." He nodded, trying to smile, but managing only to look ill. "Alright, now, let's see. _'!niag lanosrep rof erom on laetS'_

O'Brian gripped his chair tightly and closed his eyes, clearly expecting _some_ pain, despite her statements to the contrary. When nothing happened, he opened them a little without relaxing his stance.

"Did it work?"

She eyed him critically. "I think so, but we won't know for sure until the next time you want to steal something."

"Wha-what will happen then?" There was an obvious tremor in his voice.

"Nothing bad," she soothed. "You just won't be able to steal, that's all."

"Cool. So, problem solved! Now, if there's nothing keeping me here…?"

"You're free to go."

"…Then I'm headed out for pizza. What about you Bats: wanna celebrate?" Batman shook his head and delivered his usual "Crime doesn't do _x_" line. They both left, Plas chattering animatedly while Batman endured him, same as always. Everything looked fine, in fact.

Except that Zatanna was sure that she hadn't misread the look in O'Brian's eyes when she told him that he couldn't steal any more.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first few days, everything seemed normal. Plas cracked jokes, smiled, and made stupid mistakes on missions. He didn't seem to care that he couldn't steal any more, although Batman noticed that he tended to stare at things of value for longer than was quite acceptable. However, since Plas wouldn't do anything, Batman decided not to press the issue.

Four days after Zatanna's curse took effect, the nightmares started.

It was about three in the morning. The Watchtower was almost silent, most of its members asleep. Batman was in his room working with Poison Ivy's new neurotoxins, and Green Arrow had monitor duty. Suddenly, they heard a loud, terrified scream from O'Brien's room.

As everyone else shook himself or herself awake and blearily tried to ascertain if they were under attack, the Caped Crusader and the Emerald Archer made their way to the source of the cry. They met outside of O'Brien's room, and wordlessly drew their weapons.

When they entered, they were shocked to discover that a) there was no attack, and b) he was still asleep, and still yelling as loudly as his elastic lungs would allow. Batman immediately ran forward and shook him, even as he struggled in his sleep and started sobbing. Finally, his eyes opened and he blinked.

"Bats?" he asked, innocent confusion on his face. "What are you doing here? Is everything OK?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," Batman said sternly, still holding the hero's shoulders. "You woke up the whole Watchtower." Plas looked behind him and saw Arrow. He blushed.

"Sorry, it was just a nightmare. It won't happen again, I promise," he said in his old tone of earnest contrition. Batman let go of him and stepped back.

"See that it doesn't" he intoned as he turned to leave. Green Arrow continued to stare for a moment, then followed his friend.

…

Unfortunately, it _did_ happen again. And again. And again. While it only took a few days for this to alarm Batman, it took two weeks to get the rest of the rest of the League to stop complaining and start worrying.

During those two weeks, things got much worse. The nightmares happened every night, often more than once. While he still acted perfectly normal, joking and grinning, Plas became increasingly nervous and fragile, jumping at the slightest noise. His manner began to take on a forced quality, and Batman was sure that if he hadn't been using his powers to alter his appearance, dark bags would have been visible under and through his goggles. Within a week, he had stopped eating. Still, only Batman and a few others seemed to notice the problems. Convincing the majority of the League took something far more… dramatic.

One night, there was no shouting. The Watchtower was silent. The more optimistic members of the League decided that this meant that the nightmares were at an end, but Batman felt a distinct chill. Around five o'clock, there was a sudden crash. Instantly, Batman leapt up from his work and raced to O'Brien's room…

… Only to find that it was empty. With a strange sense of foreboding, he listened closely for noise, only to hear the approaching footsteps of Arrow and Beetle.

"He's not here," he barked when they arrived. "Fan out and search the Watchtower."

It took about five panic-filled minutes of searching before Beetle yelled, "Found him!" Batman was too relieved to note the tension underlying those words. He and Arrow converged on Beetle's location, one of the bathrooms. They dashed in, then stepped back for a moment to process the scene before them.

He was standing over Plas, helpless confusion showing in the red lenses over his eyes. O'Brien was lying very still on the floor, an open bottle of Codeine in his limp hands. It was more than half empty, but since it was still leaking medicine, there was no way to tell how much he'd taken. Other bottles were strewn about the floor. Shaking himself, Batman took charge.

"Beetle, wake Manhunter. Tell him we have a medical emergency and that the patient will be in the infirmary in a few minutes. Arrow, go to my room. There's a green bottle on the shelf behind the bed. Bring it to me." They both stared at him. "Well, what are you waiting for, go!" he snapped. They both hurried out, leaving him to tend to O'Brien.

He lifted the shapeshifter over his shoulder, pointing his head towards the floor. Then, he grabbed Plas' waist, gripping it tightly, and forced his land upwards. It took a minute of squeezing his friend like a tube of toothpaste, but his efforts were rewarded when his patient spit out a large pile of assorted pills. It was then that Arrow arrived with the bottle.

"Hold his mouth open," Batman ordered. He removed the cap from the bottle, filled it with dark, viscous liquid, and then tipped its contents into O'Brien's mouth. Then, he moved his hand along Plas' throat, forcibly triggering his swallowing reflex.

"Help me move him" he said calmly, not looking up. He and Arrow each supported a shoulder, lugging O'Brien to the toilet in time for him to throw up. He was still unconscious, so he'd undoubtedly digested some of it. Batman felt like hitting himself. _'Of course: he's probably been here all night, swallowing pills.'_ Without pause, he hoisted the man over his shoulder and carried him to the infirmary, Arrow trailing behind him.

Manhunter was waiting for them. He looked exhausted, but he that changed when he saw his patient.

"What happened?" he asked tersely.

"He swallowed some medicine we had in the bathroom. He was probably trying to kill himself." Batman glared accusingly at the Martian: Manhunter had been among those who believed O'Brien was fine. Dropping his eyes in shame, J'onn turned to his task.

They ran a few tests, undressed him, put him to bed, hooked him up to some machines, and settled down to wait. It was touch and go for a few hours, but around 9 A.M, he opened his eyes. Batman had volunteered to sit with him until he woke up, so he was in earshot when Plas spoke, his voice cracked and broken.

"Freak! Can't even die right!"


	4. Chapter 4

Plastic Man was watched constantly after that. When he became well enough to go back to work, he was forbidden from solo missions, he was required to attend weekly physicals, and his meals were monitored. He didn't argue, which in itself was worrying. Plas had always enjoyed shows of independence, and he took pride in the League's growing trust. Now he was unwilling to push the limits set for him, for fear that he would reveal how deep the mistrust went.

Said mistrust was about more than the incident with the pills (although that was certainly a factor). It wasn't until J'onn had run some blood tests that they realized just how little O'Brian had been eating. His blood sugar levels were disturbingly low, and his prolonged period of unconsciousness had given everyone a chance to observe his weight loss. Worse still, upon awakening, his first action was to use his powers to inflate his stomach and muscles, making him appear perfectly healthy. Furthermore, realizing that the jig was up didn't weaken his resolve. He merely continued to pretend, as if his main concern was convincing himself that no one knew.

Occasionally, someone would try to broach the subject with him. It was usually Wonder Woman or Manhunter, but Green Arrow would occasionally put in a word or two. He was very polite, very friendly, and absolutely mum about the whole episode. It was downplayed, or seemingly forgotten, or otherwise made into a matter of so little concern that pursuing it became awkward.

The nightmares continued for two weeks following the failed suicide attempt. They ceased abruptly, with no explanation forthcoming. Plas started eating on his own again. The regulations on his movement and meals were gradually lifted, and it seemed that things were returning to normal.

Batman, however, did not agree with that assessment. He was a detective, and he didn't know what was going on. While that was frightening enough, it was still more unnerving that no one else appeared worried. He sensed that there was more to this than anyone was considering, and he refused to call this case closed. Something just didn't seem right.

One month after the incident, he figured out what that was. It was a little after one in the morning, and the Watchtower was asleep. He had monitor duty. He was growing bored of staring at the dull scenes broadcast from major cities, so he decided to switch to the Watchtower's security cameras for a few moments…

…Only to be confronted by Plastic Man stalking the halls. He was obviously awake, and while he stared about nervously, he moved with assurance, having obviously done this before. Mouth agape with shock, Batman watched as his friend skulked up to Superman's door. Sliding his elastic fingers around the panels, O'Brian silently opened the door. As the camera views on the screens were changed, the bizarre scene continued. Plas slowly approached a small chest of drawers just left of the bed where the Man of Steel lay asleep. He opened the top drawer and rifled through it, fingers flicking nervously through unfolded undergarments. Finally, almost reverently, he drew a small wad of bills from the back of the case. He caressed it wistfully for a moment, then silently returned it. Then, he slunk away, oblivious to the witness that was now running to his room.

…

When O'Brian returned to his room, he was surprised to find the light on. He was downright _shocked_ to find the man who had turned it on was still in the room, sitting on his bed and glaring at him.

"Hello, O'Brian," said Batman, his expression unreadable.

"Bats! What a…surprise. What're you doing here? I don't have monitor duty, do I?" He was quiet for a moment, expecting an answer. After a few seconds of silence, his smile faltered. "Wha-what's up?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that" said the Caped Crusader, one eyebrow raised.

"You…you saw, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. Care to explain?"

Plastic Man ran his fingers through his hair and began to pace nervously. "I…I don't know what to tell you, Bats." He looked up helplessly. "Where do I _start_?"

"Try the beginning."

"OK. Um, let's see, the beginning. Well, I, um…" He broke off for another minute, collecting his thoughts. Batman was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of record of silence for Plas. Even on long stakeouts, the man could _not_ shut up. He eyed the nervous shapeshifter as he began to speak.

"Well, y'see, a, um, a few years ago, I…had some trouble. It wasn't that bad, mind you, and I'm perfectly fine! But, um, since then, whenever I don't steal for too long, I feel…weird. I know it's wrong, and I shouldn't be throwing away all the chances you've given me, but it…it's still there." This last was said in a mere whisper.

Batman steepled his fingers. "Go on."

"Well, when Zatanna…stopped me, I thought, "Great! Now I can stop." But that didn't happen. I just kept thinking about it, and feeling guilty about thinking about it, and getting scared because I _couldn't anymore_, and, and…"

Much to his horror, Batman realized that the younger man was crying. He awkwardly proffered a handkerchief and muttered something vaguely comforting. He gestured wordlessly to the bed, and O'Brian sat heavily next to him.

After a few minutes, he asked the question that had been bothering him.

"What happened to you?" Plas just shook his head, with his eyes closed and shoulders slumped. Batman continued. "Whatever it is, I'm sure that the League could do something. We could help you. All you have to do is tell me what's wrong."

"You wouldn't believe me." His tone made it obvious that he was holding back tears, but what made it striking was its utter certainty.

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm just a…just a dumb freak, 'criminal scum.' You'll believe them, not me."

"O'Brian, who is 'them?'" There was another pause as Plas considered his answer. Then, he turned to face the other hero, looking him directly in the eye, as if to telepathically convey sincerity. Batman felt it necessary to add, "Eel, I can't promise that I'll believe you. I can promise that, whether I believe you or not, I'll get proof before I make any decisions." It might've been the persuasive tone, or the use of his first name, or just the exhaustion of the long hidden secret, but O'Brian continued.

"Bats, I…at Iron Heights." He covered his face with his hand and turned away. "I…It wasn't your fault, but…bad things happened there. To me. I…was hurt, by the…by the guards there." He looked up, partially shading his face, as if to ward off an incoming blow. What he got instead was completely unexpected.

Batman hugged him, tightly, muttering "I'm sorry" under his breath. After a moment's hesitation, Plas hugged him back. " 'S not your fault, Bats," he whispered. "It's mine." They stayed that way for another ten minutes before, reluctantly, Batman got up to inform Blue Beetle that it was his shift for monitor duty.


	5. Chapter 5

Batman had always been stringent upon the necessity of getting evidence in an investigation. Now, his desire to find proof bordered on the obsessive. He hunted down Iron Heights prisoners, former employees, documents… anything he could find.

They all pointed to the same inexorable conclusion: Plas had been telling the truth.

Worse still, it appeared that he'd actually tried to sugarcoat it. The reports, the tapes - everything he checked depicted heinous abuse. Firstly, it appeared that a number of the prisoners at Iron Heights had been systematically raped and beaten. Those with potent superpowers had been subjected to specific tortures that only they could survive. If a convict fought back, insulted a guard, or did any one of a hundred arbitrary things wrong, he was starved for days. The administration was almost certainly aware of what had happened and was continuing to take place. The prison doctor was _definitely_ aware of the state of things.

Batman wasn't entirely sure of his reaction. At first, he thought that he was scared, shaken by the change in his once-familiar world. Then he realized that that wasn't it. He was furious.

"O'Brian!" he shouted, barging into the JLA's conference room halfway through a meeting. Plas looked down at his hands as several of the other members squawked indignantly.

"What do you think you're-"

"After he just-"

"What's wrong with you?"

"- Interrupting a meeting and-"

Batman glared at them all, silencing them. He strode up to Plastic Man, who was staring determinedly at his lap.

"Well?" There was a brief pause in which Plas gave him a look that was part fear, part confusion. "Why didn't you tell me?" A pair of rubber hands began to shake.

"I- I wanted to. I just thought you wouldn't believe me. I-I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough!" Batman yelled, no longer caring who heard him. "Did you think that you were the only one affected by this? Do you have any idea how many people had to go through the _same thing_ because you were too much of a coward to tell me what was going on? You're practically an accessory, subjecting countless men and women to torture!" Plas was crying silently into his hand. Batman was concerned, but he couldn't stop. "Not to mention what you went through! You could've helped yourself, but you were too _stubborn_ to ask for my help?! Why? Why didn't you tell me?" Batman paused, panting heavily, his hands clenched into fists. "Well?" he asked, growing impatient.

Plas looked up. His face was red, and his voice was shaky and weak when he responded. "They-they told me th-that if I said anything - especially to y-you - that they…they'd um… they'd make it worse. I-I mean, it'd take a while to… to prove anything, and while you were doing that, I mean, I'd still be there. I'm sorry: that's a dumb excuse. B-but th-they showed me wha- what they meant. By "worse." It - it was awful." This last was all but inaudible. Was Batman unable to read lips, he wouldn't have known what was said.

As it was, he felt his rage dissipate. He stared at the red-suited figure in front of him, completely oblivious to the stares of the rest of the League.

"What did they do to you?" It wasn't a demand, and his tone made it clear that an answer wasn't needed at the moment. Nevertheless, he got one.

"They- they cut me, a-and m-made me d-do things. Like shapeshift into a… they were all men, y'know. So they didn't have any… I didn't want to. I had to. And later, they-they'd give me the choice. Either I could let them… cut me, or I'd do the - the other thing." He broke off for a moment, his hand over his face.

"Go on."

He nodded. "Sometimes they'd tell me to- to do it to another criminal. Sometimes they'd make others do it to me… And sometimes, they wouldn't let me eat. For days. And they'd say it was my fault, even if I didn't do anything. At least I think I d-didn't, I'm not s-sure. One time, th-they d-d-didn't f-feed me for a… a long time. They put me in a room with another guy who hadn't eaten, and they threw a… one of those cheap cheeseburgers on the floor. I… I was so hungry. The other guy didn't deserve what I did." He swallowed, not daring to look up.

"And this one time, right before you first visited me- they found a guy who could… he had a whip. Every time they g-got rid of some skin, it'd just… it grew right back. They did it for so long, and then… then they said that if I didn't tell you, they wouldn't do it again. And if you tried to get me t-tr-transferred, they'd do it every night until I left. And if I t-told you after I left, I… they'd wait until I screwed up again and went back." He began to pull at his fingers. "It's OK. I-I deserved it. All of it. It…I mean, you're the one who always says, 'There are no happy endings to a life of crime.' I should've realized that. It-it's my fault." He looked up at Batman tentatively and flinched. "I'm sorry," he gasped, refocusing on his feet. "I-I didn't want to… to lie to you. I get it. I'd be mad, too." There was a long silence.

"'Mad' doesn't even begin to describe it," said Batman calmly. "I want to make two things very clear to you, O'Brian. Look at me." Plastic Man looked up meekly, his hands half-raised, as if to ward off a poorly-aimed blow.

"I can count on one hand the number of times I have been this angry. I am enraged, I am furious, and were it not completely contrary to everything I believe in, I would kill someone over this. I will make _someone_ suffer a great deal for this." O'Brian flinched. "That _someone_ will wish that they had never heard of me." He knelt down and gripped Plastic Man's shoulders. Seeing him edge back, Batman loosened his hold.

"Secondly, I am _not_ angry at you. The 'someone' I am referring to, who is actually several 'someones,' is whoever thought it was a good idea to harm you, and all of those other people, the ones you mentioned. Whoever made you suffer, and made you believe you deserved it. I _will_ make them pay, and I will make sure that they do so without affecting you." Plas's eyes widened in shock. "If there's one thing I want you to take from this, it's this: I will not hurt you, because you _do not_ deserve to be hurt." Batman smiled warmly. "Alright?" He got a nod in reply. He gave O'Brian's shoulders one last squeeze and released them. "Good. Now, I think you should go lie down." With a final nod and a grateful smile, Plas left.

"Ahem." Batman turned around, suddenly noticing that the room was filled with stunned superheroes, including Green Arrow, the speaker. "Want to clue us in to what exactly is going on?"

Batman sighed and pulled up a chair. This would take some work.


	6. Chapter 6

It took the League about five seconds to realize that, were O'Brian's old "habits" discovered, the justice system would waste no time in sending him back to prison. Furthermore, if Plas ever said _anything_ publicly about what had happened to him, those who had harmed him would see to it that said habits were discovered, For the same reason, it was decided that Batman would not immediately report his findings on the cruelty of the Iron Heights staff, as any twit would immediately figure out who was responsible for the Dark Knight's sudden enlightenment.

However, it was important that the truth get out, and that a full inquiry be started immediately, so the JLA fixed on a simple solution: they would use what influence they had with the courts (which was extensive, to say the least) in having the default prison to which Eel would be assigned changed. This was easy, as Plastic Man had a reputation as a Class A metahuman, a powerful hero, and a dangerous enemy (when provoked). Thus, should he be arrested for a serious crime, he would automatically be remanded to military custody. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it put him out of harm's way.

Their second concern was getting enough evidence to bring the matter to court, and to convince a judge that more than a few arrests were necessary to fix the problem. That took work, but most of it was enjoyable (at least for Batman). There was something about scaring a crook half to death, then telling him that he was wanted as a witness against a common enemy, that combined the best parts of witness counseling and suspect interrogation. Many of those they spoke to begged to remain anonymous, or to be placed in the witness protection program, the irony of which was unmistakable. Nevertheless, the convicted criminals were reassured of their safety, and a sizable roster of witnesses was soon available.

Meanwhile, Manhunter, the Atom, and Blue Beetle dealt with records. They obtained them, sorted them, and set up the tests and documentation to prove that they weren't faking anything. The sheer _amount_ of evidence staggered them. There were videotapes, medical records, letters, and even psychiatric session notes. (It was shameful, really, Batman reflected, that it had taken them this long to figure out what had been going on.)

Finally, they had to find a lawyer to take the case. To be sure, they had no shortage of legal professionals willing to do a favor for the great Justice League, many of whom were practically drowning in their credentials and experience. However, the moment they mentioned who the victims in the case were, and the identities of the aggressors, not to mention the incredible _scope_ of what they were trying to do, many of the cock-sure attorneys changed their tune. "It can't be done," they'd say. "No one's going to side with criminals in this sort of case. Worst-case scenario, the jury'll think that the bastards deserve it." They heard this repeated innumerable times, from innumerable pairs of lips, until they were quite sick of the pessimistic refrain. It was then that O'Brian came forward with a suggestion.

"Why don't I testify?" He asked. "I mean, the problem here is that no one will trust a bunch of crooks, right? But people _like_ me, and they know I've reformed. I'm one of the good guys now. They'll believe me, and they'll think about it. Aw, c'mon, please?" Despite the return of his childlike demeanor, Plas worried Batman. He was, reportedly, doing an excellent job in his sessions with J'onn, but something about the way he moved and talked seemed… off. Batman decided not to think about it too much, and to keep a tight eye on his friend. This request was unacceptable, though: that much was certain.

He soon discovered, to his horror, that he was the only one who thought so. Arrow, Beetle, Aquaman… they all agreed with Plastic Man. Even Manhunter thought it would be "good for his recovery." Almost before he realized what was going on, Batman found himself outvoted and the proposal going forward.

It definitely worked. The next lawyer they went to agreed almost immediately to represent the abuse victims, and was soon coaching the witnesses and preparing a brief to bring the issue to court. He kept O'Brian's involvement under wraps ("Want to make it dramatic, you see," he'd said), yet soon the case had attracted its own media circus. A hearing date was set, and the final preparations began. Batman did his best to bury his misgivings, as he couldn't change anything at this point.

_Next week,_ he thought, _Plas will testify._


	7. Chapter 7

The trial had gone on for three days. The tapes that the prosecution had procured weren't a sight for anyone who had just eaten, or indeed, anyone who wanted to eat again. Just seeing them had made Batman's face turn purple under his cowl.

The witnesses, unfortunately, were less affecting. Most of them had difficult memories of their last courtroom encounters, and they all seemed to lose their nerve when called upon to accuse their tormentors face to face. This nervousness was evident to the jury, but they interpreted it mostly as a sign of dishonesty. They seemed to believe that the Justice League's involvement with the case was good-natured, but a trifle naïve.

The judge was bored to death, much as he hated to admit that he had become jaded to the sights of torture and rape that were broadcast as part of the case. Secretly, he was thrilled that the prosecution was almost done, as he was hoping to get home for an hour of lunch.

"Will the prosecution call its final witness?" he yawned.

The attorney leading the case stood up. "Of course, your Honor, but you see, he isn't in the room at the moment."

"Well, get him then!" he snapped. He was too distracted by his irritation to notice the slight smile that flitted over the lawyer's face. To his credit, the guards' attorney spotted it. (She ought to have, after all, when one considers what she had cost them.)

"Your Honor, I wish to object to-"

"Overruled!" (At this rate, he wouldn't get home in time for dinner, let alone lunch.) "Counselor, where is your witness."

"If your Honor will wait for a second," he replied plaintively. He picked up a cell phone. "Send him in," he said, his grin now covering his face.

The court was soon distracted from this unprofessional spectacle by an oddly pervasive hum. Moments later, none other than Plastic Man materialized just inside the door. (The bailiff yelled and dropped his coffee in shock.) Ignoring the stunned faces in the crowd, Plas strode to the witness stand. The judge was so flabbergasted that it took a loud "Ahem!" from the witness for him to remember to administer the oath. Quickly recovering his professionalism, the prosecutor maneuvered his mouth into a sober line, walking up to the stand to lean on the judge's podium. He looked up at said judge pointedly.

"Oh, um, counselor, you may proceed."

He nodded and turned to face his witness. "Mr. O'Brian, what is your current occupation?"

"I work with the Justice League."

"So… you're a superhero?"

He smiled, enjoying the center stage. "Yeah, you could say that."

The attorney gestured around the expansive courtroom. "Then why, may I ask, are you here today?"

The cheerful visage darkened. "I once… did some things I'm not proud of."

"Would the witness be more specific?"

"I… used to steal for a living. Either on my own or for someone else."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once. When I was fifteen, I was arrested as a henchman."

"Were you convicted?"

"Yes."

"Did you serve the duration of your sentence?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Iron Heights Penitentiary." Even though everyone in the room had seen it coming, the response was enough to elicit a gasp.

"I see. What was it like for you there?"

He looked down at his hands; they were beginning to shake. "It was hell."

Batman stared attentively at the stand. He was prepared to dash in and bodily drag Plas from the courtroom if necessary.

"Would you please clarify that?"

"I was… beaten. When they… realized that I could survive… other things without - without showing it, they c-cut me. Y'know," he added with a nervous laugh. "I can be ripped into little pieces _this_ big." He pinched two fingers together. "It hurts, just as much as it would for a normal person, but it can't _kill_ me, y'see. It doesn't even leave marks. It's just… the pain. That's all it is." He laughed again, and even the most unobservant there could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. Batman tensed, horrified.

The testimony went on for what felt like hours. Plas enumerated beatings, rapes, tortures beyond what even the most imaginative could picture. He described in minute detail the vicious guards, the thoughtless prison doctors, and the ignorant or politically motivated administrators that had all, in a way, been responsible for his condition. He continually shrank, smaller and smaller, until the shaking figure whispering what had happened could scarce be recognized as a member of the Justice League.

Finally, he finished. Even the defense attorney was eyeing his clients in a distinctly unfriendly manner. For his part, the prosecutor looked nothing if not uncomfortable. O'Brian's entire body was shaking, and he was crying silently into his hand. After roughly two minutes of strained silence, the lawyer stepped forward.

"Mr. O'Brian?"

The witness looked up, goggles bent into a depressed (not to mention impossible) position. "Yes?" he asked quietly.

"I just have one more question for you, and then we'll call a recess." There was no trace of doubt in his voice: the judge would allow it, or be publicly lynched. Seeing his witness nod faintly, he continued in a soft, gentle tone.

"How old did you say you were again?"

"Fifteen."

At this, the advocate turned to face the judge and marshaled his face into professional indifference. "No further questions. May I request a brief recess?"

The judge nodded wordlessly.

At this, there was suddenly a commotion in the first row of court seats. One of the prison guards present lunged forward, screaming incoherently. Batman leaped up to restrain him as he forced his way to the witness stand where O'Brian sat, motionless with stark terror.

"You freak!" he spat. "You got everything you deserved! Just wait, before you know it someone will catch you doing _somethin_g. It doesn't matter what. Your kind always returns to type! And when you are caught, you'll go back, and whether I'm there or not, someone will be there to make sure you pay! Iron Heights takes care of its own!" He was dragged back by the bailiff, still raving. Batman, meanwhile, had run up to his friend, who was now a sickly pale color. He turned to the judge, expression unreadable. The man nodded, no longer thinking of his relaxing lunch hour. He stood, revealing the power behind his glazed expression and the reason he had been granted a judgeship. He was truly majestic.

"Would the counselor like to cross examine?" he asked, his tone implying that he dared the defense to reply. The attorney shook his head mutely.

"In that case, the witness may stand down." He had addressed himself directly to O'Brian, who took Batman's proffered arm and stumbled to a seat. The multitude would have stared at him for the entire twenty-foot walk, but the judge began to speak again, and the command in his voice was unmistakable.

"There will be no need for the jury to retire. In light of today's overwhelming evidence, including the words of one of the defendants, I may say, without fear of contradiction, that they are guilty as charged." He now turned to the court stenographer. "Furthermore, I wish to formally voice concerns with the current administration and administrative methods of Iron Heights Penitentiary, and demand that until such time as a formal inquest may be conducted, and a full investigation made into their questionable practices, the prison be shut down and its inmates placed in other correctional institutions.

Lastly, I charge that, as the government desires to concern itself with the pursuit of justice, and is held to the highest of standards in the manner that it treats its prisoners, there be a formal request made for funding to establish a non-profit psychiatric institution for the purpose of distributing professional help to those who suffered as a result of political interest and criminal negligence.

Court is adjourned!"

It took the bailiff, who had just finished struggling with the guard, a few moments to collect himself. When he did, he quickly gave the order to rise for the judge, and the courtroom's occupants quickly dispersed.

Batman took out his JLA communicator. "Two to Watchtower," he said tersely. The air hummed again, and they were gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Plastic Man was practically comatose. He didn't make much noise apart form a sort of subdued whimpering, and he was curled up in fetal position. It almost made Batman wish that he was in the habit of saying "I told you so." It wouldn't have been intensely satisfying, but it would have alleviated some of his guilt about the matter to say aloud that it really wasn't his fault. As it was, he spent most of time in the JLA Infirmary. He knew that he couldn't do anything, but he got the sense that O'Brian found it comforting to have him nearby.

Manhunter also spent a great deal of his time with the patient. He didn't dare try to use his telepathic powers on someone who was obviously trying to avoid unwanted contact, but he didn't have much else to do, and he figured that it might be good for O'Brian to hear someone talking to him. But despite the efforts of Batman, Manhunter, and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the League, nothing changed. The days rolled past, and they began to contemplate more severe courses of action.

Then, inexplicably, he returned to normal. On the morning of the tenth day after the trial, Plas sat up in bed, rubbed his head a little, and asked Batman, who happened to be on-hand, if there was anything he could take for a headache. Batman, for his part, stared at O'Brian for the better part of five minutes until his charge began snapping his fingers and asking him to "wake up." It was the nervousness in the shapeshifter's tone that got to him. He shook himself and asked O'Brian to repeat himself.

"I was just wondering if I could get something for this killer pain in my head, but it's OK. I mean," he added with a worried frown, "If you don't want to get up, I can find it." With that, he stood and made his way to a large medicine cabinet on the other side of the room. As he was returning to bed with the pills, he took a better look at what he was wearing.

"Bats?"

"Yes?"

"Um, why aren't I dressed? I mean, how long was I out? What happened, anyway?"

Batman shot him a concerned glance. "You might want to sit down." For once, Plas did as he was told, quietly and without protest.

The explanation of what had happened before O'Brian had stopped functioning took a few minutes, and by the end of it, Plastic Man looked decidedly frightened.

"But I-I don't remember anything," he said, drawing his knees up to his chest and rubbing his forehead. He laughed nervously and pushed the cowlick back from his face.

Batman nodded. "It's alright. We'll figure that out later. How much do you remember?" His tone was both curious and hesitant.

Plas eyed him for a moment before sighing and leaning back on the bed. "It stops when I entered the courtroom," he confessed, his eyes closed. He opened them and glanced over. "What'd the jury say?"

"Nothing. The judge decided the case."

"Oh. What'd he say?"

"The prison's closed, at least for the time being, everyone they can catch is under arrest, and they're opening a free clinic to treat the inmates, past and present, for psychological damage." He looked over at his friend, who was smiling weakly.

"So, we won?"

"Yes, we did."

"Awesome." The next sigh was clearly one of relief. "I was… I was really worried there for a while."

"Trust me, it's over, thanks to you. Now you can focus on the main problem."

"What's that?"

"Getting better." Plas snorted. "I'm serious, you know."

"Yeah, I know." He put his arms behind his head and leaned over to look at Batman. "It's just that that suddenly seems scarier than the trial."

"I know." Hesitating only briefly, he reached over and stroked Plas's head. "But don't worry. You'll be alright." There was a peaceful silence for a few minutes after that. When he next spoke, Plastic Man's voice was calm.

"Bats?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think I can try the free clinic thing?"

His eyebrows raised, Batman turned to look at his friend more closely. There was no sign that he was joking. "Why?"

"Well, I just thought… maybe they'd get it, y'know? Especially 'cause they're only treating people like me."

"They're not like you."

"Well, maybe not entirely. But as far as this goes? It makes sense." There was another five-minute pause. Batman couldn't believe that he was considering this, and yet… He had to admit that in this area, a psychiatrist aware of the circumstances under which Plas had gained his current problems would be far superior to someone working with a wider range of cases.

"Fine. I'll look into it tomorrow. For now, just get some rest."

" 'Kay. Oh, and Bats?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for… y'know."

He smiled and patted Plas's stomach. "No problem."


	9. Chapter 9

They stood outside the door to the free clinic. Batman couldn't believe that Plas had gotten his way, yet again. Perhaps he was smarter than he let on. At this point, he wouldn't put anything past his friend.

"So… Bats. I, um, this is awkward." The voice shook him from his reverie.

"I thought you wanted me to see you off."

"Oh, I did! It's just, now that we're here… it's a little weird, ya know?"

He couldn't help it; he chuckled. He looked over at O'Brian, who seemed visibly relieved by his show of good humor.

"O'Brian?"

"Yeah, Bats?"

"Do you realize that none of this would have happened if we hadn't stopped you from stealing?"

"Yeah, that's right… but it does sound kind of weird now that you mention it."

Struck by a sudden thought, Batman stared at him intently for a moment.

"O'Brian, why do you steal?"

Plas jumped a little at that, then rubbed his head nervously. "Well, to be honest, Bats, I'm not really sure. I mean, I used to steal a lot before I was arrested. I mean, more than I had to." A patient nod encouraged him to continue. "It got worse after prison, but I… I don't know. If I had to guess, I'd say that it's because I've never been much good at anything, but I was- I was good at that." He wasn't meeting Batman's eyes, instead shifting his eyes from the ground to the surrounding landscape and back.

"Besides, I… I haven't been entirely honest with you about- about other things. Things that made me feel… hurt. Weak. And you know what they say: 'Money is power.' I guess that having it around just made me feel…" He gestured uselessly.

"Powerful?"

"Yeah." He grinned, remembering old exploits. "Powerful."

There was a sound from inside, turning the attention of both men back to the building. Plastic Man looked up, his tone businesslike.

"Well, I suppose I'd better get going, then?"

"Right. A couple of the other heroes and I will be in next Saturday to visit you."

"Sure."

Batman held out his hand and Plastic Man shook it, smiling broadly. There was a momentary pause, then Batman pulled his friend into a tight embrace. They stood there for a moment, Batman clapping Plas on the back gently. Then they pulled apart and Plastic Man walked into the hospital alone.

Batman watched him leave. _He'll be all right,_ he thought. _The doctors there know what they're doing, and he's strong enough to recover._

He heard a loud beeping and looked down at his wrist. There was a break-in at the First National Bank of Gotham. He whipped out his grappling hook, shot it at the nearest building, and shot off into the midmorning sky.

* * *

**OK, so the story's over. I was just wondering if anyone wanted a sequel. Also, ****I can't help but think that the current title and description don't really fit the story anymore (unfortunately).** Any (serious) ideas are welcome.


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